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  • A Memory:Fragile but Indelible
  • Ljubica D. Popovich

During World War I, my hometown of Šabac, Serbia was bombed by the Austrian army artillery so that almost every home in the city was damaged, and the population of 14,000 was reduced to 7,000. After that war, the city was declared a martyr, like Verdun in France. In 1920, Šabac was awarded a French War Cross with Palm. In the subsequent decades after the war, Šabac was rebuilt, and its population rebounded. The city flourished with many young professionals, among them physicians, pharmacists, lawyers, teachers, professors, musicians, artists, actors, prosperous merchants, and successful artisans. That generation of young men and women included many Francophiles. Thus, it was not surprising that when Monsieur André Grandejean arrived from Paris; he was employed to teach French. He gave private lessons in people’s homes, primarily for women and children. Large classes were held for the “French Club” (Francuski Klub) in the town’s library. These classes, however, were open to all interested citizens. Just before the German army invaded France in 1939, during World War II, our beloved French teacher and his family left Šabac and returned to Paris. Monsieur Grandejean was greatly missed by our community. Unlike the pre-WWI period when German was the predominant foreign language of choice, after the Great War French, the language of Serbia’s great ally, was widely preferred.

As the German military machine was crushing various European countries or annexing others, new kinds of refugees started appearing in our town. They were speaking German. Among them was a young Jewish girl, probably eighteen years old, who had come from Vienna. She was being sent in advance of her family in hopes of escaping the Nazis. Befriended by my family, she was also employed in teaching me some German and keeping me company when I was not in school. I was then eight years old. To me, she not only looked grown but seemed unusual in demeanor and looks. I was especially struck by her curly red hair and the many freckles on her face, both of which [End Page 209] I had not observed among my school friends. I was also very impressed with her fashionable attire, most notably by her dark green winter coat with a small fur collar. While my memories of her appearance and persona are distinct, I can no longer recall her name, and there is nobody alive to ask if someone remembered it.

I retained very little of my German lessons with her, since it would become, during WWII, the language which my generation despised. Indeed, what we came to associate with the language of the occupiers was pure fear of harshly barked commands, the bombings, fires, destruction on all levels, executions, family separations, streams of refugees, and the endless suffering of so many.

But before all that war tragedy struck in 1941, I do have a very vivid memory of my friend from Vienna. It was a walk in the large, formerly planned city park. I recall distinctly that a moment during this walk was captured in a small photograph. Regrettably, I no longer have that photograph, but it is still clearly ensconced in my memory. It was small, black and white, with scalloped edges. In it the two of us are seated on a bench under a big tree, deep, fresh snow surrounding us. Therefore, it must have been a moment in the winter of 1940–41. The next memory of her that still resonates is of my father advising her with following words: “The war is coming to our land, young girl. Go south and save yourself.” At that point she was still alone, her family never having joined her from Vienna. I believe that her father was a physician. However, it was clear that she had financial means. She heeded my father’s advice and left the former Kingdom of Yugoslavia to head south by train as had many other refugees. She hoped to reach Greece, and from Greece to travel further on a British ship to Palestine. WWII reached Yugoslavia in the spring of 1941, and we never heard from our red-haired friend...

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